


Memento Mori

by musicmillennia



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Asexual Character, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Dildos, M/M, Makeup Sex, Mild Gore, Urban Fantasy, but people gon die, lots of people are going to die, not major characters, rogues family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8412634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: If there's one problem about Saints and Sinners, it's the private bar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I was watching From Dusk Til Dawn aaaaaaand...  
> Brief note on the timeline of this piece: The Rogues formed before The Fire. This takes place after The Fire.
> 
> This is my first time going full-on smut. Please have mercy.

Of all the beat-down places in Central City, Saints and Sinners might as well be from New York's Park Ave. Under new ownership as of 1996, the place is fixed up all pretty, from the new sign to the replaced light bulbs. Bar's got everything high-end and low-end places don't: a combination of gasoline and centuries old wine sitting next to each other on the same shelf. Even the building itself looks like it stands taller, where it used to sag between two likewise bent stilts of abandoned businesses.

If there's one problem about the place, it's the private bar. But even that's not really a problem, see, 'cause Saints and Sinners allows criminals, prostitutes, and general ne'er do wells that already surround its territory. If you're dressed like a white dad or even a clean shirt, bartender's gonna have a word with you. If you've got honest money, you need to know a password or have an invitation. The owner's dramatic like that, or so they say.

Mick Rory hasn't stepped inside since 1983, when Saints was still a shithole. He's not too impressed by the polished booths and working lights; he's more of a dive bar guy himself. But he's one of the handful who got an invitation, blue ribbon bordered stationary covered in expensive ink, with the owner's signature curling at the bottom like a hooker's crooking finger. He had half a mind not to accept, but by now it's an established rule that you don't turn down a Saints invitation.

He grimaces at the coat rack (who the fuck has a  _coat rack_ around here?) but that's another established rule: hang up your coat. He sheds his jacket, a tan monstrosity that looks more like a fireman's coat than anything, and about two sizes too big. Given Mick's size, that's sayin' something. He pulls one of his suspenders back into place, other hand fidgeting with the fancy envelope.

Girls are dancing on tables. Strippers love this joint: pays well, clean, and treats them right. The pickings aren't slim. If Mick wasn't so distracted, he'd stop and smell the roses.

Two bartenders are working tonight. When Mick recognizes their faces, he nearly turns on his heel and bolts. He'd had a feeling about this place, from the owner's signature to the general smell.

When Mark Mardon and his brother grin at him with teeth, he knows he was right.

Fuck.

Mick can't back out now. They'll see him leave and tell their boss. He should've recognized the handwriting on the invitation.  _Seth Gecko_ was obviously an alias, because for fuck's sake, he's not an idiot. Although, standing there with wide eyes in the middle of the room, Mick thinks he just might be one.

"Mick Rory!" Clyde crows, "Come on over! Haven't seen you in a long while."

Mick takes a deep breath through his mouth. Approaches the bar with affected nonchalance.

Mark's smirk is identical to his brother's. "We were hoping you'd show." He jerks his thumb at the shelves behind him. "Take your pick. On the house."

Mick asks if they've got a favorite of his. Clyde laughs and says, "Just got a fresh batch yesterday."

Of course they did.

He's done pussyfooting around.

After chugging half his bottle, Mick asks, "Where is he?"

Mark raises his hand, but doesn't pat Mick's shoulder. "Patience is a virtue, Rory."

"I look like I got virtues, Mardon?"

"You look like you need another drink."

Mick grunts and takes another swig.

"Oo, here comes trouble," Clyde murmurs. He walks to the other end of the bar, and Mick follows his gaze.

And he's back in idiot mode, because the new girl who's strutting out right now? He knows that girl.

She's wearing a most-definitely-stolen collar of diamonds that spread over her collarbones and peek at the top of her cleavage, which is shown off stupendously courtesy of the shiny gold bra she's wearing. Her boots and panties are the same color, making her painted lips redder and her smoky eyeshadow darker. Her curls frame her face and tumble past her shoulders, their gold and brown mix practically sparkling under the dim lights. And her eyes, oh  _fuck_ , they're bright and pleased as a cat, roaming around the clientele like the girl just knows she's mesmerized everybody in the room. 

A fucking gold queen is what she is, and Mick's voice barely recovers from her swaying hips.

"Does he  _know_ about this?" his voice comes out slightly hoarse from the shock.

Mark's pupils are blown wide. "He never does. Always catches her in the act, never before."

The girl—no, the  _woman_ —prowls to a hapless couple 'a meatheads playing cards not ten paces from the bar. She spreads her hands on the table, claiming the whole game with a bat of her eyes.

"What're you boys playing?" she asks, head tilting enough to show off some neck.

One guy manages to choke out "Poker" while the rest process what's in front of them.

She shows them a red smile. "Mind if I play?"

Mick shakes his head. Some things never change.

"Don't trust her, boys," he calls, "she's got an eye for countin' cards."

The woman spins around. Her bright eyes get brighter with her delighted smile.

"Mick!" she squeals, trotting over, "Baby!"

Mick can't help smiling. "Hey, Lisa. Y'look good."

Lisa slides into his lap, throwing an arm around his neck. "I know. Got my own stash of these pretty things. But Mick," her smile turns into a pout, "why did you ruin my fun? You and Lenny  _always_ ruin my fun."

Mick puts a hand on her back. "I haven't seen you in fifteen years, Lise."

"Yes, and that makes Lenny ruin my fun."

Lisa spins to her feet, leaving Mick in favor of draping herself over the bar. Her Cheshire smile is back.

"But now you're back," she says.

Mick finishes his bottle. "I'm here tonight. I ain't back."

Lisa rolls her eyes. "Both of you are so emotionally stunted, you put me to shame."

"You have no shame."

Lisa flips her hair over one shoulder. "Which just proves how stunted you are. Do you have any idea how long it took for Lenny to write that invitation?"

"Well, you're probably gonna say it was ten ye—"

" _Ten years_! It took him ten years! Ever since this place opened and those envelopes were made! And the five years before that were full of more stalling. People like us don't apologize for what we do, Mick, but a little chat would've been nice."

Mick shrugs, summoning another eye roll.

He asks, "This place what I think it is?"

Lisa grins again. "And you've been invited."

"I told you I ain't back."

"But you accepted."

"I didn't know who the owner was."

"You clearly know now, but here you are. Pride's one thing, Mick, but you've never been the type to stick around if there's nothing in it for you."

"It's been fifteen years," Mick says, "people change."

"Oo, I could almost believe you."

Lisa blows him a kiss, bids him welcome, and saunters off.

Mark sighs. "If she wasn't Snart's sister—"

"—you'd still get your throat ripped out for touching her," Mick says, "and you know it."

Mark looks entirely too happy about the prospect.

Mick gets another drink. He spends a few minutes nursing the bottle and being mad at Lisa because she's right. He's stayed long enough to've handed over his invitation, proof he'd been here, and walked out. He doesn't have to sit here and wait for anybody, especially if it's the guy who abandoned him in a dirty hospital with a promise they were finished for good.

He tells himself it's 'cause he hasn't had a good drink in a while, and there's plenty here to choose from where lately he's had to make do with scraps. It doesn't even hold up in his head. Mick grimaces and finishes his second bottle.

A couple minutes later, Mick stiffens in his seat. He still doesn't move.

"Hello, Mick," says Snart, "wasn't sure you'd make it."

"You gave me a message, I came," Mick growls back, "what of it?"

Mark hands over another bottle. He still hasn't said anything about a tab. Probably Snart's doing.

Snart glances at the other two bottles. "Never took you for a fast drinker."

"'M thirsty, so what?"

"Are you now?"

Mick slams the bottle down. "What do you want, Snart?"

"I can't just see an old friend?"

"You made it pretty clear we're not friends."

Snart pauses. "No. We're not."

Mick wishes he could take that at face value, but not even this many years between them took away his desire to read into Snart's words and see the affirmation of ' _no, we're not just_   _friends._ ' He's so fucking pathetic.

"If this is your idea of an apology, it ain't workin'."

"It's the tenth anniversary of my bar tonight," Snart says, "midnight on the dot."

"Congrats," Mick grunts. His bottle's already empty.

"I'm sure you noticed the special offer I put in the window."

No, he hadn't. He loses his touch when he needs a drink. "That supposed to mean somethin'?"

Snart glances down. A smile teases at his mouth as he looks back up and turns on his stool.

"Lots of clients tonight," he says, putting his elbow on the bar and clasping his hands. "They all wanna celebrate. We've got a reputation now."

Mick's eyes narrow. He decides to play along for now. "Yeah. You got good business."

"People always have a thirst for danger." Mick scoffs. Len's mouth quirks and he adds, "Our reputation often precedes us."

Why did he drag Mick's stupid ass down here to talk about  _danger_ and  _reputa_ —

Slowly, Mick turns his head to look over his shoulder.

He pinpoints the Rogues no problem. He ran with them long enough. Shawna's on one of the tables, Bivolo's at the pool table on the far right with Hartley, and Axel's waiting tables. The back of Lisa's head can be seen near the entrance, carefully not showing her brother what she's wearing. But there's something about how they're situated that raises red flags in Mick's head.

Snart murmurs in his ear, "At midnight, Bivolo's gonna change the channel."

Mick spots the TV remote, left on a table a few feet from the door. He'll bet that door locks tight.

Snart says, "This anniversary's a family event. We're closing up early."

Mick instinctively licks his dry lips. His tongue feels swollen and heavy.

"The question is: are you gonna stick around?"

Oh,  _fuck_.

"Fifteen years," Mick snarls, "and you wanna  _bribe_ me?"

"With you, I've learned actions speak louder than my 'winning speeches.'"

"Is that what you're calling this? You've got some nerve, Snart."

Snart gives him a brittle smirk. "I have another gift for you, but I figured that could wait until after the—festivities. You'll get it at one-thirty. That's the plan."

"You and your plans," Mick sneers.

"It'll work."

"That's it!" the two men whirl their heads around. Lisa stands there, hands on her hips.

Snart gets a twitch in his eye as he takes in what she's wearing.

"Sis," he says, looking far too casual, "I thought you were gonna wear the gold  _dress_."

Lisa sends him a shark's smile. "I said I would dress in gold."

She grips both their shoulders until their teeth clench. 

"Now here's what's going to happen," she says, "Lenny, you're going to tell Mick that you were wrong for leaving him and that you miss your mate. M-A-T-E, Lenny.  _Say it_. And that you will make the whole world bleed until he's full and guzzling like tomorrow's a dream. And Mick, you're going to say, 'Oh Lenny, I'd be happy to accept your apology, so long as you promise you'll never be an idiot again,' and Lenny, you'll say, 'Of course, darling mate of mine, anything you want, because I deserve a good throttling for leaving you behind and will grovel for the rest of our shared existence.' Do I make myself clear?"

The Rogues collectively cover their mouths. Axel's straight up giggling.

Mick and Snart look at each other.

Snart's lips are pursed. His fingers are fiddling with each other.

Still looking at him, Mick says, "I can't say that."

Lisa asks, ever so sweetly, "And why not?"

"'Cause he'll never stop bein' an idiot."

Len blinks. For a moment, he looks honest-to-God surprised.

Lisa laughs and kisses both their cheeks, leaving scarlet stains. She wiggles her fingers over her shoulder and glides back to her booth, saying, "Have fun, boys!"

There's an awkward pause. They wipe off the lipstick.

Mark places two shots in front of them and pours two more for himself and Clyde.

"I think we need these," he says.

After the glasses are slammed down, the Mardon brothers go back to work with shit-eating grins and Len's staring Mick down like he's expecting him to pull the other one.

Mick says, "Tell me what I'm here for and I'll tell you I mean it."

Len doesn't do honesty, especially in public. It's a fair trade. Mick waits for him to work up to it, already itching for more liquid in his mouth.

"You're here because you're my partner."

No nasal tone, slight glance to the right on the second word but otherwise perfect eye contact, and more fiddling fingers.

Mick takes his hand. For a moment, the lights turn to candles and the dark walls fade into unpolished wood and stone. For a moment, it is 1768 and Michael kisses the back of Leonard's hand like they're at a ball in London and not in the middle of a seedy room in New York.

Len shoots to his feet. "It's 11:02," he practically hisses, "we have fifty-eight minutes and forty-two seconds."

Mick settles at his shoulder as if he never left. He follows Len to the EMPLOYEES ONLY back room and up the spiral stairs in the corner.

"Got yourself a proper nest  _and_ feeding grounds all in one place," Mick says. "Only you, Len."

At the top of the stairs is a hallway. The bedrooms are by no means big, but they're definitely a comfortable size if you've got a modern coffin instead of a bed. Mick glances at the slightly open doors, identifying which coffin was whose by the decorations they covered 'em with, like Axel's painted diamond pattern or Shawna's many witty stickers.

Len opens the door at the end of the hall, revealing the biggest room, which supports an almost obnoxiously fancy bed with way too many pillows for Mick not to love on sight. On the left is Len's coffin, the kind that looks more like an oversized guitar case than a resting place. He had new cushions sewn in, plush blue silk with his usual blankets packed inside and a fluffy white pillow that's way too big like the blankets.

Next to the door's a dresser, but beyond that, it's just empty space on the right.

"Didn't know if you wanted to bring your own," Len says.

Mick pins him to the bed's ridiculous pillows—there's a snowflake-shaped one next to a fire-shaped,  _Len is such a fucking dork_ —and asks, "What do you got in here?"

Len grins, free and happy. "Under the bed."

Mick fumbles underneath, knocking the wind out of Len with the sudden movement. He finds a handle and yanks out a simple cardboard box.

A box that is full of many, many things.

Mick hums, fishing around. Len slips out from under him to grope for the left bedside table drawer. He brandishes lube and a condom the same time Mick laughs at a firetruck red dildo.

"Lenny," he says fondly, "this custom made?"

Len answers by shoving the lube at him.

Mick laughs again and works on getting his boots off. He's slow with his forced diet of late night drunks, so Len does most of the work in getting their clothes off. He ignores Len's searching look in favor of kissing him properly.

Len lets him pin him back down. He keeps inhaling through his nose as he licks open Mick's mouth, holding his head like Mick plans to go anywhere. Mick licks his way to his throat and takes a long breath himself, humming at the sharp smell of cold that he's only ever liked on his partner.

He hovers over the tufts of hair on Len's chest. "How d'you want me?"

Len raises himself on his elbows to take another kiss. "Your call."

A sense of awe and privilege hits Mick with the force of a whip. Control's one of the things Len likes best.

"You're really butterin' me up," he says. It comes out weaker than he wanted.

Len rolls them over with a few more kisses. "What do you want, Mick?"

 _Shit_. If Mick wasn't already dead..."C'mere."

He maneuvers them so Len's back is on his chest. His mate's cock is red and full; he's gotten better at eating since he got a nest to set and example for. Mick growls his approval, cupping Len's head while Len rolls the condom on himself.

"You're gonna open yourself up like this," Mick says, "and then you're gonna roll over and ride me."

Len lets out a low noise, nodding. He takes the lube back and gets to work.

Now Mick, he ain't one for taking part in sex. There's no interest for him, no need or want or nothin'. Some people like to think it's 'cause he's undead, but it was that way when he was a farmer's son in Ireland stowing away on a ship to the colonies.

He does like to watch, though. there's something about watching somebody writhe and moan that catches his eye, almost like his flames are stored in a human body. Watching Len's a personal favorite, of course. That iron control peeling away into bitten lips and choked noises, to head thrown back and dazed eyes, it's beautiful. A show he'll never get tired of.

Len utters small grunts and half-moans against Mick's neck, scissoring himself open just like Mick wanted. Mick can't see his face too well from this angle, but those sounds will do for now. He entertains himself by playing with Len's nipple, pinching and rubbing until those quiet hums increase to " _Mick_ "s and " _yes_ "s. He presses a filthy grin to Len's temple, pulling him closer.

"Add another one," he says.

Len does as he's told. Mick's head spins with how sharp his scent gets.

"Take your time, sweetheart," Mick rasps, "I wanna get you nice n' loose."

He moves his hand to lightly rub Len's stomach. Blood makes the skin softer, the scars of Len's human life smaller. Len's breath quickens into heavy pants; Mick can just see his face: lips parted, brow furrowed, head tipped back over Mick's shoulder even while it's kept from hitting the mattress. Most vampires are stunning, but Len could break all their unbeating hearts.

Makes Mick wanna admit things. Things like, "Missed you Lenny. Missed this."

Len takes his fingers out and turns over. He splays his fingers on Mick's shoulders.

"Good," is all he says.

Mick chuckles and slicks up the dildo. Just as he thought, it matches his measurements to a T. Fucking Lenny and his numbers.

"So," he says, "here's what's gonna happen now: I ain't gonna do a damn thing. You're gonna work for it."

Len huffs, even as he lines himself up. "You're enjoying this too much."

"Fuck yeah. Love watchin' you."

Len takes the high praise for what it is with a tiny smile. He reaches for the dildo's base.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Mick says, "what do you think you're doin'?"

Len raises an eyebrow. "You said I had to do all the work."

"Yeah. Which means I hold it, and you fuck yourself on it."

Mick grins at Len's eye roll.

" _Fine_."

"Y'know," Mick says as Len sinks down, "this has gotta be the best apology I've ever gotten. And I've known you for over three hundred years."

Len scoffs. It turns into a stuttered sigh when he's fully seated. He hangs his head, adjusting.

Mick kisses the back of his knuckles, drawing his half-lidded eyes. Fuck, he's gorgeous.

Len rises and sinks back down. Up, down, up, down, and those pretty lips get punctured with eager fangs, and Mick's mouth fills with cotton, and, and—

Len grins, blood on his teeth. "Smelled it when you came in," he pants, "you thirsty, huh?"

Mick keens.

"Yeah? Heard about people gettin' found in alleyways half-dead. That you? Been livin' off—" Len moans. "—a couple drinks every couple nights?"

"You ever stop talking?" Mick snaps.

Len picks up the pace. "Jus' curious. Don't want you t'go into a frenzy while I'm—"

Mick twists the dildo, breaking that little speech into a loud call of his name.

"Thought I was doin' the work," Len breathes.

"Thought you were gonna shut up and do it."

Len bounces on the dildo, Mick keeping one hand on his hip to keep him from blurring into vampiric speed. He wouldn't have a problem seeing him if he did, but that mouth should go back to saying about three things: "Mick," "yes," and some form of pleading for more.

"Mick..." ah, that's better. "Mick...you're burnin' up."

Damn it. "I know, Snart," Mick growls, "I don't care."

Len cups his chin, opening his mouth. There's still blood on his teeth. He kisses him.

When Mick opens his eyes, Len's underneath him, head thrown back, and Mick's got his fangs buried in his shoulder. Mick pounds the dildo into Len, setting a furious pace so Len'll wrap around him. So he'll buck into his fangs. Fuck, Mick's so  _thirsty_.

Vampire blood tastes synthetic. It's like drinking the chemicals that go into processed human food. And Mick doesn't care. He doesn't fucking care, because it's more than what he's gotten in the last few days, and it's his mate, so there's a sweet quality that makes it more bearable.

Len's talking again. Shorter sentences now, since he's getting fucked outta his mind, but Mick can get the gist of it: "Gonna flood the whole damn bar—let you drink all of it—all of it—Mick—every last drop—take care of you— _Mick_ —"

Mick tears himself from his skin. " _Stop it_ ," he snarls.

Len grins, dazed eyes rolling to him. Dark blood makes a messy smear on his pale flesh. Mick hears the gurgling noise of his puncture marks weaving back together.

"Gonna come, Mick," Len says, "you wan' me to?"

Mick groans and laps at the leftover blood. "'Course I want you to, Lenny."

He puts Len's leg over his shoulder and shifts the dildo's angle. Len meets his thrusts, clutching the sheets, throwing his other arm around Mick's neck to keep his tongue on his blood.

"So good," Len murmurs, "Mick—so good—"

Mick hums, lapping at his blood.

"Mick.  _My_ Mick. My Mick, my—" Len jerks and comes, mewling into the pillows, " _mate_."

After one last lick, Mick pulls back to sit on his heels. He puts Len's leg down.

Len's eyes blink open. He is so beautiful.

Mick removes the condom. "Anywhere I can throw this?"

"Under the bed," Len mumbles.

"Again? What else you got under there?"

"The heads of the fallen."

"Ha-ha, asshole."

Once Mick's found the small trashcan and tosses the condom in, he takes out the dildo. Len raises his hips with a sigh.

They fall together in a heap. Mick licks off the last of the blood.

Len nuzzles him. "Got some time left. Should rest here a bit."

Mick closes his eyes. "How much time?"

"Enough."

"Mm."

"...Mick."

Seems Len still doesn't know what 'rest' means.

"Yeah?"

"What've you been eating?"

Really? Didn't he just get fucked?

Mick puts his forehead on Len's chest. "I's like you said. Been pickin' up a couple drunks in alleyways."

"You're a better hunter than that."

"Feels like enough at the time. Got used to it, I guess."

Len's grip tightens on him. In a low voice, he says, "We'll fix that."

And that. That sounds really good.

 

Axel's shooting them a thumbs-up and Hartley looks dramatically forlorn. The rest of the Rogues are just plain smug—though Lisa's wrinkling her nose.

Mick almost forgot how nonexistent privacy is in nests.

It's 11:58.

Now that Mick's gotten a taste of his mate's blood, he feels more than just the heat of thirst. Heartbeats tease his ears, matches that refuse to spark. He retakes his seat from earlier to hide his shaking hands under his thighs.

Lisa and Len bracket him.

It's 11:59.

Lisa rests her head on his shoulder. "It's okay, baby," she coos, "we'll get you a nice big dinner."

Len's hand settles cold on Mick's neck, both an affirmation of Lisa's promise and a warning to keep still. Mick stops breathing.

It's midnight.

Len sends a subtle nod to Roy. The lock clicks.

Mick blinks hard. Shawna saunters from her table. She and Hartley draw the blinds on the front windows. Saints and Sinner's reputation will keep everybody on the street clear; blinds down means people die.

Fuck, he hasn't been this hungry since he was a newborn. How did he not notice?

Len stands. The music and TV shut off.

People have noticed the closed blinds. Their heartbeats escalate into tantalizing chaos. Len keeps his hand where it is.

"I'm sure you've all noticed how hungry my mate is," he says. His eyes are turning red. "So in honor of Saints' tenth anniversary, I thought I'd give him a treat."

Mick pants like a bull in the gate. He thought the other Rogues were joining in. Len had said 'family celebration.'

Oh. It's a family celebration for  _him_.

That's so fucking sweet Mick might eat someone.

Len lets him go.

 

The humans scream. The Rogues stand in front of all possible exits.

Except for Lisa, who points to an idiot cowering in a booth and tells her brother, "Lenny, that guy touched me."

Len's bones crack and shift. " _Did he now_?"

Lisa can take care of herself, but sometimes she just likes to sit back and watch people burn.

Mick's doing a relatively clean job, mostly because he doesn't want to miss a drop. The idiot who touched Lisa gets his head thrown clear across the room, barely missing his face as he buries his fangs into someone else's neck. Len only gets into a decapitating mood for his sister.

Mick drains four people before he can stand instead of pounce. Off to the side, Len's painted himself with the blood of Lisa's offenders. The floor's gonna be a bitch to clean up.

"Free for all!" Axel squeals.

Mick's boots splash across the room. He yanks Len in by his collar. Their kiss only stops by someone's intestines hitting Mick in the back.

"Watch it!" Mick shouts over fresh screams.

"Oops!" Shawna chirps.

"Progeny these days," Len says, "no respect."

He feels Mick's face. Then promptly spins him around and pushes him at one of the few the Rogues haven't got around to.

"Oh well," Mick says. His eyes go wide and manic. "Can't say no to spilling more blood."

The wallpaper's hideous anyhow.

 

Afterwards, the Rogues collapse in a circle and stare at the ceiling, sated and sleepy.

Hartley pipes up: "So Mick's staying, right?"

Mick snorts. "What d'you think?"

"I think you and Snart got divorced," Shawna says. "You staying or not?"

"Yeah, I'm staying."

The entire nest groans, "Thank God."

Len rolls his eyes, but pats Mick's chest. "Welcome back, Mick."

Mick licks more blood off his neck.

Len lightly scratches the back of his head. "This reminds me: you all better hurry with the clean-up before this stains."

"I think it's an improvement," Mick says.

"Oh! If our other leader thinks it's an improvement," Axel says, "we shouldn't touch a thing."

Universal agreement.

Len summons his best glare. " _Mick_."

For the first time in years, Mick laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> The "guzzling like tomorrow's a dream" is from LordJazor's parody of the Beauty and the Beast prologue.
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to pretzel-log1c for the title!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
